The Dreams of A Burnt Soul: Johnlock
by BBRaeLuv
Summary: After Sherlock's death, Dr. Watson is haunted by vivid dreams of Sherlock that he struggles to distinguish if they are real or imaginary.
1. Chapter 1

The Dreams of a Burnt Soul

John sighed heavily in his sleep as he bit his lip. The dreams, they were coming again. He could smell _him_. He could sense _him_. He could hear _his_ breathing. He could feel _his_ presence. John didn't dare open his eyes. He knew, from the hundreds of other times these haunting dreams, that Sherlock would not be there when he wrenched his eyelids open. They were a weird type of dream. In the dream it was as if he was awake, yet when he opened his eyes to see him, to embrace him, it was then that he would awaken.

These resplendent nightmares were a blessing and a curse for John. The first few dreams left him catatonic for days, not talking to anyone, not leaving his room, not eating. He'd lie in bed in a daze purposely, pretending to sleep. But pretending for whom he could not answer.

However, he soon learned that if he could both appreciate these moments with Sherlock and at the same time prepare for them to be ripped away, they might actually do him some good. Though some things are better in theory. The thought that Sherlock would have be able to come up with a better solution stung John's mind and he focused on the details of the dream.

This night's dream was more vivid then usual. He was suffocating in Sherlock and the memories that came with him. He could feel the coolness of his fingertips as they traced his hairline to his jaw. They were cold just like many times when he had come home from a case late at night. The fringe of his navy scarf tickled his bare arm. He inhaled quickly as he could smell the fog emanating from _his_ coat.

This was getting too real for John. He struggled to open his eyes, to stop it from drowning him. But he couldn't do it. His own hope forced his eyes to stay closed, ironically, considering all the nights before they had fluttered open searching for someone who was not there. He felt _his_ breathe on his cheeks and he blushed involuntarily. His breaths came in jagged as he choked them down. His heart beat fast as he could feel him coming closer and closer to him.

_Open your eyes!_ He shouted at himself, but his body betrayed and allowed the dream to continue.

John lay there; his loud heart beat practically shaking the walls of the solitary flat. His hand suddenly had chilled fingers interlocking with his own.

_He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. This isn't real. He died_. John tried to convince himself, though it was too real and he found himself gripping onto the fingers of his unattainable love.

Flesh. He could feel him. He could feel his strong digits and his thumb ran over the back of his knuckles. He suddenly felt the returned favor. His eyes were now squeezed shut; his body, heart and mind were determined to not even let the idea of ruining this to encounter. The feeling of soft cashmere fondled his neck before the crash. Before John could realize what was happening, it hit him. _His_ lips. First on his forehead, then his cheek bone, a slight hesitation as he felt the warm breath on his nose, then his lips.

The connection was electric; it was everything John had always imagined, but better. It far out did any and all of his school-girl day dreams. It was soft and tender, affectionate; everything Sherlock pretended he wasn't. He lips tasted like mint and a flavor he couldn't put a name to. It was a taste he was familiar with, yet the name escaped him. His heartbeat seemed to stop and start sporadically. John had no idea how long it had taken him to decide to kiss back. He did so gently, terrified that any sudden move would rip the seams of the dream. He felt a single tear escape and roll down his cheek. He ignored it and continued to feel the warmth of Sherlock's lips with his own. He dare not imagine Sherlock's face at the moment; dare not do anything. He just continued to move his lips with Sherlock's in a dance that seemed to be choreographed specifically for this moment. Soft pushes and pulls along with the mystery taste that John couldn't place. It was all so real. So so real. John ignored the third and forth tear just as well as the first. He tried his best, but as the fellow traitors rolled down his face he couldn't stop the thoughts from flooding his mind.

_Maybe it i__s real this time_

_Maybe he figured out a way to survive._

John felt his love pull away, his lips lingering for a moment, his fingers tightening their grip on John's. John felt the breath before he heard the words.

_John, I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please_.

The whispers echoed in the air as he felt Sherlock's grip loosen and his fingers slip away. John's arm wrenched out and caught them. He squeezed them tight. Sherlock truly was with him this time. Less than a second passed as he gathered the courage to open his eyes. John's mind raced as he imagined what Sherlock's expression would be. How would he have changed in the past year? John's eyes opened and waited impatiently for them to adjust. He smiled as he looked down at his hand, though it quickly faded.

He sat up and bent over. He grabbed the wastebasket near the bed and felt all of his fear, hope and disgust with himself spew out of his gut.

He pushed the bucket aside and stared at Sherlock's "hand", the, now twisted, lilac bed sheets. He looked away from it, staring at the wallpaper. He cursed himself in his mind. Tears no longer escaped him. He struggled to keep it together, however. He wouldn't Sherlock see him like this, where ever he was. He shut his eye tight as the traitors began to build.

_No!_ he thought. _No. _ He put his hands on his knees to steady himself as he regained composure, or what he had been passing off as composure for the last year. He took in deep breaths, each time the hope that maybe he would just stop breathing pricked his mind.

_How easy that would be_. John, some how, closed his eyes tighter, willing for it to happen. How ever his breaths came just as they always had. He was a doctor. He knew what pills to take, which arteries to cut, which angle to point the gun, which gases to inhale. But as much as he wanted to, he couldn't. Not because he knew he could move on, or because he had a duty to his sister and Mrs. Hudson, but he couldn't get the idea that as soon as he would digest the pills, bleed out, pull the trigger or breathe his last breath, Sherlock would come walking through the door. A minute too late. Had he just wait longer. No he wouldn't do that. He would stick it out.

_He's never coming back though_. No he couldn't think like that. No, he could not. But the thought stung him again, and again, and again. How long could he survive these dreams? Feeling and hearing Sherlock, but then to wake up to the images of his bloody corpse lay on the ground, as if it had happened just a second prior.

These thoughts truly were too much. John practically vomited again from trying to suppress his sobs. But he held it together. He would hold it together. For Sherlock, where ever he was.

Where ever he was.

That thought was what hurt John the most. He couldn't truly believe Sherlock had died. But he did. He saw him die. He saw him jump. And land.

_If he did die, is there a place for him out _there?_ What do you mean if? He's dead_.

_But what if he's hiding out somewhere._

_But he isn't._

"Sherlock?" The word escaped him. It leapt from his mouth, his soul calling out to its other half. The silence that filled the room was his breaking point. Not the dream; nor was it the disappearance of the mirage. Not his hand, nor his kiss. But the silence. All the words left unspoken, "how cliché" was the phrase that ran through John's mind. But it was true nonetheless.

Heartbreakingly true.

The silence twisted from its melancholy mocking setting to a substance much more despondent. John fell to his knees beside the bed as the sobs rocked him side to side. His own broken heart trying to soothe itself.

His cries were savage and terrifying. His cries were the sound of a person's soul burning. He had given up. He had tried to control the burn at first, starting with a flare up at the fall, then he tried to put it out. Too bad he only dulled it to a hot ember, still burning, still just as much damage, but slower. A year had past, since then and he hadn't paid attention to it catching fire. Slowly more memories fed the fire, more thoughts added fuel. More dreams lit more and more matches.

A soul burning is a dangerous thing. Say the fire was out of control. The flames of hurt and grief burn the brightest, burn the longest. The soul burns greedily and misguided when hurt this terribly, looking for the source of its grief, to burn and destroy it. But what if there isn't a source to seek revenge, what if the source is long gone. Who's to blame then? Who's to be burned? The fire doesn't care. It wouldn't understand that it's misguided. It couldn't understand, it only understands what it feels, what it wants, revenge. It'll burn in all directions, searching for something that isn't there, destroying all in its path.

John's was only a few more leaflets of paper, a match or an ounce of fuel from this. He knew it. He could hear it, the fire roaring, the fire gaining momentum. He could feel it burning, charring the inside of his soul. He felt it. It burned but he didn't have the will to stop it, to even try.

He couldn't be strong any longer. _He could_. But he wouldn't.

His body futilely tried to save itself like it had done before, but it was no use. The tears spilled down his face. His lungs tried to suck in air to breathe to forget to start anew.

His lips trembled and he gasped. The fire roared.

"Sherlock," he pleaded, "I'm sorry as well. I can't wait any longer."


	2. Chapter 2

Dreams of Burnt Soul: Part 2

The pounding on the door came again. And again. And again. John was lying on the floor, too exhausted to scream "go away". So he didn't. He was too tired to cry; he was too tired to breathe. His body, however, continued to do both of these to his dismay. He was awkwardly slumped against the bed and wall, his head on the floor his legs in a tangled mess under him. His sobs had quieted, and he was now just swallowing his breaths inadvertently.

"Go away." He managed to whisper, though no one could hear. _Why wouldn't Mrs. Hudson just go away?_ John wanted to know. Why did she let him live here in 221 B for free? Why did she feed him? Especially when he would much rather starve to death. "If she cared for me at all," he thought, "she would let me die." The pounding came once more then stopped.

"Oh thank god." John sighed too soon. The next pounding was a great deal louder accompanied by the sound of cracking wood and a shout. John heard the tumblers unlock and the door swing up.

"John?" Cried the voices of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They immediately climbed upstairs to John's bedroom. Though he wasn't there. John was relieved for a brief moment; one because he still had a moment or two before they found him and two because they obviously overestimated his ability to recover; as if he would be sleeping in his own bedroom, when he could cry himself to sleep in Sherlock's.

"John?" They bellowed his name in a melancholy harmony. _Obviously they know I'm here. Don't they realize I'm just not going to answer?_ John was in a horribly irritable mood. He didn't notice, but the fire suddenly had a target.

"Why couldn't they just leave him alone?" He wanted to know. That's what he _thought_ he planned to ask. However, even when he decided his question, he knew they'd be lucky if he lifted his head to greet them.

They searched the whole flat before stumbling into Sherlock's bedroom. _Fools_ he wanted to say. _Sherlock would have know I was in here before_ _I em even came into the room._

"John!" They both rejoiced at his being found. John looked up at them, obviously annoyed. He rolled his eyes laid his head back on the floor.

"Oh, John, honey. Did you have a fall?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as if John was an old man who had simply lost his balance in the night.

_Quite right, Mrs. Hudson. I decided I needed some water so I got up, and would you be damned! My legs just fucking gave out! Would you believe it? Like honestly, what the bloody hell do you think.._

He remained silent.

She rushed over to him, Lestrade in tow. They both helped him on his feet and walked him to the living room, where they sat him in a chair.

"I'll make you a pot of tea!" She chimed as she turned on her heel. Lestrade sat in Sherlock's chair and smiled at John.

John smiled. Not the smile that's warm, inviting or friendly. It wasn't even an imitation of any of these. It was a threat. A threat Lestrade understood immediately. He rose from the chair and stood awkwardly beside it. John's menacing smile faded and he moved his gaze to the window.

Soft notes of Sherlock's violin played and once again he felt as if he was drowning, being suffocated by the sudden introduction of memories.

"Would you stop playing the bloody thing?" John shouted angrily only to be met with a confused look from both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

"Pardon me?"

It was only then that John remembered the music was in his mind, embedded inside him. The track continued to play and the memories followed suit.

"Oh never mind." John said annoyed that they wouldn't be able to drop it, as he anticipated their next question. Or stream of questions. John saw their lips moving but didn't care to listen to what they were saying. He tuned them out and soon pretending to be listening grew tiresome as well. He looked back out the window and the notes played louder. _Might as well embrace it._ was the first thought, soon followed by _Yes, please do. Embrace it. Because that worked out so well the last time._

Suddenly he could feel the burn of the bile coming up his throat, the burn of the fire in his heart, the burn of his eyes from the tears.

His sight moved to the skull on the mantel. _Oh much better. _The sarcasm fluidly flowing through all his remarks.

After going through nearly every object in the flat within view he decided the only thing not connected to Sherlock was a certain square of carpet near the door. He was able to focus on that for a while but soon the fact that it was the only part of the apartment that was untouched and unconnected made it connected. He couldn't move his mind away from why he didn't connect Sherlock with it. Soon his gaze was adverted again as he finally started hearing Lestrade shout his name.

He came out of the fog he was unknowingly in and was once again annoyed.

"What could you possibly want?" He spat. The both of them stood emotionless and silent. The room was silent. Silence. John groaned and tried to find the tune that had been stuck in his head. It had vanished. What had Sherlock said about the average brain's memory? Forty percent or something like that. John smirked and chuckled at the irony. He shook his head violently, the smirk long gone. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson watched in a terrified awe. John stood up and grabbed his cane. He began to march out the door when he stopped and hobbled over to the fridge. He pushed aside all the condiments and cartons until he got to the hidden jar of toes. He smiled happily, proud that he had been able to keep this hidden from Mrs. Hudson. He held it under his arm and hobbled out the door. Not saying another word

John rhythmically shifted his weight with the cane as he made his way towards the cemetery. Shockingly no cab would take him with a jar of toes in his hand. He thought nothing of it; he assumed the world was just out to get him as he continued on. The chill of the air comforted him. He could smell the chill. The cold air, the freshness the wetness of the pavement from the mist and late night drizzle, it surrounded him and he finally enjoyed the sensation of air rushing into his lungs. His steps were quick, as he didn't really need the cane when he was distracted.

What was he even doing? He wanted to know. Some part of him knew, but whether it was lack of interest or an abundance of laziness he didn't bother to figure it out. The last stretch of the walk was uphill; John awaited it eagerly. His pace quickened, unintentionally racing with the memory of his friend with a fast gate.

His breath came out in puffs of smoke as he reached the top. He walked through the wrought iron gates and followed the paved path until he reached the section he desired. He walked up the rows without thinking. He had the path memorized. Though he only consciously remembered visiting three times, he knew he must be a regular as one of the lawns men tipped his hat in addition to his own stealth in reaching the grave.

The dark marble stone stared at him, his own reflection shocking him a bit. The bold white letters Sherlock Holmes stared back at him as well. John smiled sadly. He placed the jar of toes next to the headstone.

"Merry Bloody Christmas." John mocked though he wasn't truly sure of what month it was, only that it was cold.

It was silent again and John refused to stand it.

"You know, I understand that you're dead and all but I'm pretty sure that if you were alive you wouldn't answer me anyway, so would you mind throwing me a bone?" he paused a moment this time letting the silence overwhelm him. He felt that this time the silence was actually a response.

"You're an ass." John proclaimed to the headstone. "You were Sherlock Holmes, the man with superior intellect, yet here you are dead. Bloody wonderful job. So much for being the greatest consulting detective the world has ever known." John could hear Sherlock correcting, "Excuse me, you were the ONLY consulting detective therefore you were of course the greatest. How do you fancy that deduction, Sherlock?"

The silence ensued, only irritating John further. "Hey, if you were so bloody smart, how was it that you weren't able to deduce the fact that I was in love with you? Oh wait you probably did, you just didn't care enough to recognize it." John cursed trying to be angry, to hide the sadness that overwhelmed him.

He sat down tiredly in the wet grass and sighed. "You know, I was going to kill myself this morning, Sherlock? The only reason I didn't is because I honestly didn't care either way. I thought you'd come to save me, though, like we always do for each other. Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier this morning, if you were listening." John awaited the dreaded silence.

"I'm always listening, John."


End file.
